Anders just smiled.
“How’s that accomplice thing going?” Robin asked.
Anders’s smile faded.
Robin walked past the loading dock and looked into the first dressing room. “Who used this?” she asked.
“Bobby,” Dobson answered.
“This is where the star changes,” Norman Chow said.
Robin stepped inside and looked around. The room was large with a dressing table, a couch, and racks for clothing. Robin went into the next dressing room, which was much larger and had several dressing tables.
“This is where Maria, Sheila, and Nancy changed,” Dobson said.
“Where was Miss Porter found?” Jeff asked.
Anders pointed to a section of the floor in the center of the room.
“Where was her inhaler found?” Robin asked.
Anders pulled out a drawer at the end of the row of dressing tables. “This dressing table was used by Maria Rodriguez,” the detective said. Anders moved over two tables and pointed. “Miss Porter used this table. She said she put the inhaler on top of it.”
Robin looked around for a few minutes. “Can you walk me to the curtains where Mr. Turner says he was hiding when he watched the Chamber of Death?” she asked Norman Chow.
Chow led the way to the front of the stage. Robin walked behind the curtains. Then she walked down the stairs at the side of the stage that led down to the audience and stood next to the seat Turner had occupied.
“I’ve seen enough,” she said after a while. “Jeff?”
“I’m good.”
“Thanks again. We won’t keep you any longer.”
Norman Chow headed for his office, and the rest of the group walked up the aisle to the front of the theater.
“Have you cracked the case?” Anders asked Robin when they had returned to the sunshine.
“It’s the butler,” Robin answered, “but don’t tell Peter. I want to do the big reveal during my closing argument, like Perry Mason.”
Anders laughed. “Looking forward to it,” she said. Then she walked away.
“Well, boss?” Jeff asked when they were alone.
Robin shook her head. “You?”
“No big insights, but our guy could have run around through the tunnels on his side of the audience once he got behind the curtains.”
“I thought of that.”
“It doesn’t help us.”
“Neither does anything else we learned today.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Jeff had to talk to a witness in one of Mark Berman’s cases, so Robin walked home alone. There was leftover Thai food in the refrigerator, and Robin warmed it in the microwave. Then she grabbed the remote and found some UFC bouts to watch while she ate.
The matches ended at ten, and Robin switched to the local news. A reporter was standing in the street in front of a driveway that led to a house in Dunthorpe, which Robin recognized instantly.
“Behind me is the home of Regina Barrister, the legendary criminal defense attorney. An anonymous source has told this reporter that an attempt was made to poison Ms. Barrister with cyanide-laced chocolates. More than twenty years ago, the magician Robert Chesterfield was accused of murdering a woman with cyanide-laced chocolates. Mr. Chesterfield was stabbed to death onstage last week while performing his greatest illusion, the Chamber of Death. Are the two crimes linked in some bizarre way? The police and Ms. Barrister have refused to comment for this story.”
The newscast moved on to another story just as Jeff walked in.
“They just had a story on the evening news about the attempt to poison Regina.”
“How did they find out?” Jeff asked as he walked over to Robin.
“The reporter said she got the info from an anonymous source,” Robin answered as she switched off the set.
Jeff sat down next to Robin.
“It was probably someone in the PPB,” Robin said. “I wonder who.”
“I don’t,” he whispered in her ear.
Robin stared at him. “Don’t tell me you’re horny. We made love this morning.”
Jeff smiled. “I can’t help it if I find you incredibly sexy.”
“God—men!” Robin said as she feigned a lack of interest, but she couldn’t believe how lucky she was to have Jeff in her life. He was smart, definitely sexy, and really nice—a terrific trifecta.
Jeff kissed her ear. “We could watch the weather station.”
Robin laughed. “I give up,” she said as she folded into him. Moments later, they had their clothes off and had tumbled off the sofa and onto the shag rug that covered the living room floor.
* * *
Robin was exhausted by the long workday and the round of very athletic lovemaking. She assumed she would fall asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow, but the scene in front of Regina’s house intruded on her peace of mind as soon as her eyes closed. Someone had tried to murder Regina the same way Sophie Randall had been murdered. Chesterfield, the chief suspect in Randall’s murder, had been murdered. But how were the crimes linked?
Robin tried to block her thoughts so she could sleep. Eventually she succeeded, but weird dreams plagued her. When she woke up, she opened her eyes and the dreams evaporated like morning mist. She tried to remember them because she was certain that the dreams had sent her an important subconscious message, but they were gone.
What had been so important? She was certain that one of the dreams had been about a murder—not Sophie Randall’s or Chesterfield’s but some other murder. She just couldn’t remember the name of the victim.
CHAPTER FORTY
When Morris Quinlan was in high school, he had been a third team all-state linebacker. That had not been good enough to draw attention from a school like Alabama or Ohio State, but he did get scholarship offers from a few Division II schools and ended up in Idaho. In high school, Morris was smart enough to get decent grades without studying too hard, so he had never learned how to study. Morris did know how to party, so he joined a fraternity. Several of the brothers had a perpetual bridge game going in the basement of the fraternity house, and one of them explained the game to Morris, who soon became addicted to it.
The demands of playing football, weekends of partying, and hours spent playing bridge did not leave much time for classwork. Morris had an academic advisor who kept tabs on the football players. Halfway through Morris’s first semester, the advisor told him that he was going to be placed on academic probation if he didn’t straighten up. That would have cost him his football scholarship. Morris could not afford college without the scholarship and he couldn’t give up the parties, so he decided that bridge had to go, and he did not play again until a fellow police retiree told him about the regular bridge game at the community center a few blocks from his house.
A few days after the arrival of the poisoned chocolates at Regina’s home, and shortly before Morris was going to leave for the community center, Roger Dillon asked Morris to meet him for dinner, but wouldn’t say why. Morris was distracted. Much to his partner’s annoyance, he misbid or misplayed hands several times.
As soon as the bridge games ended, Morris walked four blocks to a neighborhood Italian restaurant. Roger was seated in a booth near the front of the restaurant, and a bottle of Chianti was standing in the center of the table.
“Okay, Roger, enough mystery. Why have you purchased my favorite Chianti?”
“It’s part of your consulting fee. Dinner is the other half.”
“Consulting on what?”
“A very interesting case. I assume you know that Robert Chesterfield was murdered onstage in the middle of the finale to his magic show.”
“Everyone knows that. It’s been front-page news.”
“Do you also know that someone sent Regina Barrister, Chesterfield’s old attorney, a box of poisoned chocolates?”
“It was on the news.”
“What did you think about when you heard about the chocolates?”
“Sophie Ra
ndall’s case.”
“Exactly.”
“Do you think there’s a connection?”
“That’s why I’m buying you dinner and giving you these,” Dillon said as he reached below the table and brought up a stack of police reports. “This is everything we know about the murder in the theater and the attempt on Regina. I’ve also included the reports from the Arthur Gentry and Sophie Randall cases. I’m curious to see if you can make anything of them.”
“Is giving me the reports legal? I’m not a cop anymore.”
“No, you’re not. But the minute you take a sip of this Chianti, you will be a paid consultant.”
Morris laughed. Then he filled his wineglass. “Okay, you’ve hooked me. I’ll give these the once-over and get back to you.”
“Sounds good.”
Morris was a regular, and the owner’s daughter walked over to take their order. “Hi, Mr. Quinlan. Do you want the spaghetti Bolognese?” she asked.
“No, Flo. My friend here is treating, so I’ll have the veal Parmesan with spaghetti aglio olio. Coffee, too, please. And don’t forget to bring the dessert menu when I’ve finished my entrée.”
Roger smiled. He knew that Morris was taking advantage, but it would be worth it if he came up with an idea that would help solve these cases.
* * *
Morris got home a little after nine. He was too keyed up by the challenge Roger had presented to think about going to bed, so he cleared his kitchen table, brewed a cup of coffee, and started going through the police reports.
When he was finished, Morris had no brilliant insights. On the surface, there were enough similarities to the Randall poisoning case to suggest a connection to the attempt on Barrister, but Sophie Randall and Arthur Gentry had been poisoned twenty-plus years ago, and the killer was most probably Robert Chesterfield, who was dead.
It was midnight when Morris finished reading the reports for the second time. He’d hoped he would have a brilliant Sherlockian insight that would solve the case, but he did not have an aha moment, so he went to bed, hoping that something would occur to him after a good night’s sleep.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Jeff Hodges took the elevator to the third floor of an old cast-iron building two blocks from the Willamette River and entered the offices of Oregon Talent, Inc. Marvin Olmstead, the owner of the agency, was a man of middle age with a year-around tan, slicked-back auburn hair, and pearly white teeth, which he flashed at Jeff when his secretary escorted him into Olmstead’s office.
“How can I help you, Mr. Hodges?” Olmstead asked as soon as he had examined Jeff’s business card.
“I’m the investigator for Robin Lockwood’s law firm.”
“She’s representing David Turner, isn’t she?”
Jeff nodded. “He’s accused of murdering Robert Chesterfield onstage, while Chesterfield was performing a magic trick. Maria Rodriguez, Nancy Porter, and Sheila Monroe were the assistants who helped Chesterfield perform the illusion, and your agency represents them. I wanted to get some background on the women.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Can you tell me a little about Maria Rodriguez?”
“Maria is local, born and raised in Portland. I’ve represented her for four years. She’s had small parts in three movies that were filmed here, and she’s done some theater. Her dad was a magician until he quit to sell real estate. She worked in his act when she was little, and she’s my go-to when I get a request for a magician’s assistant.”
“What does she do when she’s not working in show business?”
Olmstead laughed. “What every ‘actor’ does when they’re not in a show. She’s a waitress.”
“What about Sheila Monroe?”
“She’s getting a teaching degree at PSU. She moved here from New Jersey with her boyfriend three years ago when he was accepted at Lewis and Clark Law School. I’ve been repping her for two years.” Olmstead shook his head. “Sheila’s a good kid. She was really shaken up by the murder.”
“I was in the audience,” Jeff said. “I remember that she was hysterical when she discovered the body.”
“I saw her the next day, and she was still a mess.”
“What about Nancy Porter?”
“I don’t know her very well.”
“Why is that?”
“Renee Chambers was supposed to work Chesterfield’s show, but she called me at the last minute because her mother fell ill and she had to go home to Wyoming.”
“That must have been upsetting,” Jeff said.
“Renee had worked a magic show with Porter somewhere in the Midwest. Minnesota, I think. Anyway, she said she’d talked to Nancy and she was willing to fill in. We met when she got to town and signed a contract. She seemed like a good kid, but I haven’t had much contact with her.”
“Have Rodriguez, Porter, or Monroe ever worked with David Turner?”
“Not to my knowledge. Certainly not in Oregon or Washington while they were with my agency. Turner’s never done a show in Oregon. He had a show in Seattle, but Sheila and Maria didn’t work it.”
“What about Miss Porter?”
“If she worked with him, she never told me. You’ll have to ask her.”
“Do you know where I can reach her?”
“Yeah. She’s house-sitting Renee’s apartment until Renee comes back. I’ll give you the address.”
“Thanks.”
“She mentioned that she might go back to the Midwest as soon as the police tell her it’s okay.”
“What about Chesterfield? I know Rodriguez assisted him three years ago when he disappeared during a rehearsal of the Chamber of Death. Have Monroe or Porter ever worked with Chesterfield?”
“Sheila hasn’t while she’s been with my agency. And Porter never said she’d worked a show with him. If she had, I’d assume she would have mentioned something when she got this gig.”
“Did Rodriguez ever tell you that she disliked Chesterfield?”
Olmstead laughed. “Maria doesn’t like anyone, but now that you mention it, I do remember that she was upset when Chesterfield disappeared at the coast.”
“Was she worried about what might have happened to him?”
“No, she was angry.”
“Did she ever give you a reason?”
“No. But she must have gotten over whatever made her angry, because she took the job at the Imperial when I told her that Chesterfield wanted her, and she seemed glad to get the work.”
Jeff stood. “Thanks for taking the time to talk to me. This has been very helpful.”
“If you have any other questions, give me a call.”
Jeff went to a coffee shop to write an account of his conversation with the talent agent. According to Miriam Ross, Maria Rodriguez had been jealous when Chesterfield chose Ross over her as a sex partner, and Rodriguez didn’t strike him as the type to forgive and forget. It occurred to Jeff that Rodriguez’s apparent change of heart might have been a cover for her real feelings if she was an accomplice of the person who murdered Robert Chesterfield.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Morris Quinlan leaned forward and studied the chessboard. If he moved his rook, he would expose his queen, but his nine-year-old grandson’s bishop was attacking the rook and he would lose the game if he lost the exchange.
After a few agonizing minutes, Quinlan shook his head. “I resign, Joey. You’re getting too good for me.”
Joey Quinlan grinned. “Don’t feel bad, Pop. You’ll do better next time.”
“Which will be at a time to be announced,” Joey’s mother said, “because it’s time to get you home to bed. You have school in the morning.”
Joey groused for a few minutes before giving his grandfather a hug. Quinlan smiled. His grandson was terrific, and he loved spending time with him. Quinlan’s marriage had been a casualty of his job. The divorce had been amicable, and his son hadn’t held it against him. He knew how much Morris loved his grandson, and the family visited Morris
regularly.
Morris walked Joey and his daughter-in-law to the door, then watched them drive away. He was still thinking about his grandson when something occurred to him. He turned the thought over, looked at all sides of it, and concluded that his imagination was way too wild. He laughed and chalked up the idea to the onset of dementia. Then he headed to the living room to watch a movie. He stopped halfway to the television. Maybe his idea wasn’t so crazy.
Morris went into his den where he’d put the police reports Roger Dillon had given him. He didn’t find what he was looking for. Then again, he wasn’t expecting to. It was too far-fetched to think that there was a connection between the murder of Robert Chesterfield, the attempt on Regina Barrister’s life, and this other case. But what if he was right? Then he might be right about another idea that had raced through his conscious mind before disappearing like a runaway train that had sped around a bend in the tracks.
Morris sat down on a comfortable armchair, the movie forgotten. He wondered if he should call Roger and tell him what he was thinking, but nixed the idea. There was no way he could get what he needed until the state offices opened in the morning, and he would need something concrete if he didn’t want to be laughed out of the room.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
The two deputy DAs who shared an office with Peter Ragland were both in court when Carrie Anders and Roger Dillon walked in.
“We found something interesting,” Anders said.
“Don’t keep me in suspense.”
“We’ve been checking the financials of the magician’s assistants. Someone deposited ten thousand dollars in Maria Rodriguez’s checking account the day before Chesterfield was murdered.”
“What does she say about that?”
“We were just going to ask.”
When Ragland stood up, he had a big smile on his face.
A Reasonable Doubt Page 20